Teachers ~~ anna hood ~~

He taught her his language.
She learned his words
her mouth full
of them breaking
her teeth as she swallowed.

Later, choking shame
them clicking
pictures a blood shot
bullseye right between
her legs
her shattered battered head
combing – my God!
swabbing scraping
not even whispering
‘a few tests for venereal disease
HIV.'

‘I’d have fought;
why didn’t you fight?
her mother.
Her friend,
‘I’d have screamed
Did you scream?’
as he held the knife at her throat.
Then the police: ‘well how?
and did you?
are you sure?
have you ever?'

Her man couldn’t touch her.
He’d pat her thin shaky self
like an old hound or brush
her cheek with a cold
hard mouth.
One day he left
‘Can’t deal with it.’ Him
whole as he could be left her
tipping off balance.
Transparent.
Invisible.
Alone.

Chained days turn
into weeks into months
shackled between walls of
whys without answers.
A trembling branch
against a three o’clock window
can shake her world, race
her heart, flood
her face, her nightgown
with salt, her skin
pale as wet tissues.

He still thinks of her.

She knows.